


the start of time

by lyssy



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Regency, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gargoyle, M/M, Soulmates, descriptions of love and other disgusting emotions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 17:27:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17533088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyssy/pseuds/lyssy
Summary: What if someone you never met, someone you never saw, someone you never knew, was the only someone for you?   — Sleepless in SeattleBetrothed to a spoiled prince who doesn’t care for him, young Lance craves adventure and begins a sordid romance with the enchanted gargoyle in his fiancé's countryside estate.





	the start of time

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from [this song.](https://youtu.be/yWcGtLblBxs) based on [swordiris'](https://twitter.com/swordiris/status/1030572715105705985?s=21) gargoyle au.

From the moor, the whistle of pink summer thrushes carried through the Altean countryside, their melody traveling gently over the ponds, past the estate's courtyard, and onward to the fat of land. Lance's eyes followed the family of songbirds as they sailed further overhead and away from view, a sense of longing pulling at his heartstrings.

He only wished he could flee with them.

Instead, he remained leaning on an old marble seraph in the courtyard, waiting while his fiancé conversed with one of their staff members yards away. Down the rest of the field, numerous workers trekked through and from a grove of great trees, bringing carriages of ornate pieces up and down the path leading to the property's private church.

In one week from now, they'd be throwing his wedding party—Lance glanced from the workers to Lotor—pardon, _their_ wedding party in this very courtyard. His belly flipped at the thought, an unpleasant sinking in his chest.

Everything was moving so fast, and their being together was most definitely not out of love, that was for sure. At the very least, they were adequate suitors for each other. And despite Lance's obvious reluctance to go through with the engagement, Lotor had come for his hand in marriage with the relentlessness of a wolf after prey.

It was his family that pushed him into accepting this proposal in the first place—his punishment for a lifetime of being such a headstrong, foolishly independent child. Always with his head in the clouds, always penning unread poems and stories in that notebook he carried everywhere, and never once acknowledging the idea of settling down. Until it came hurtling straight at him.

"Lance."

Lance blinked as he came to with reality, flushing for being caught spaced out again. "What?"

"You're brooding again," Lotor said, casting a suspicious look his way. The worker before him followed his gaze awkwardly.

"Sorry."

Lotor exhaled long and hard, his voice traveling under his breath bitterly. "Don't be sorry. Just stop."

Lance held his tongue, blistering with a snide remark that might challenge the look of thinly veiled annoyance on Lotor's face. That might be clever.

It might be useless, too. To Lotor, Lance's aversion to marry was irrelevant compared to his status as one of the prettiest, wealthiest boys in Altea. And to everyone else in town, Lance was an ungrateful, spoiled brat for being unappreciative of his interest in the first place.

But was there a tiny part of him that preened to be the center of attention of such a handsome man, a crowned prince, at that?

Of course. Yes.

But their hearts lied elsewhere. And now they were both facing a life sentence of a marriage devoid of love, and made only for convenience.

After dismissing the worker, Lotor strode back to Lance with a wry smile. "I've told him that we're set on orchids and juniberries for the flower arrangement."

"Exciting," Lance said cooly. His eyes wandered over Lotor's shoulder, trailing back to the carriages riding down from the church. "What are you having them do there?"

"They're removing some of the older monuments left in the churchyard. Complete eyesores," Lotor rolled his eyes. "Goddess knows they haven't been touched in decaphoebs. What serves their point?"

"To memorialize, I assume," Lance gave a little laugh, unsure whether or not to be astonished by Lotor's carelessness. "They're there to honor the fallen? Doesn't it disturb you a little to uproot history?"

Lotor went stone-faced a moment. "Not if it's my father's history, no."

"I wasn't trying to bring up your father."

"Yes, well, no one ever is."

Quiznak. Speaking to Lotor was a challenge in itself. There was thin ice to tread no matter what the topic. Tricky, tricky was this fiancé of his. _Ugh._  Lance's gaze fell to the ground. Even that title threaded a needle of discomfort in his stomach.

Lotor sighed as if sensing his unease. "What now?"

"I was just wondering the amount of flowers that would be coming in," Lance lied, saving face with a quick shrug.

This made Lotor smile. A sudden show of interest, and then there was that sharp smile. "A ludicrous amount," he said and reached out to squeeze Lance's arm. "However many you please."

What could Lance say? He played his cards well. "That's great to hear." As he said this, a few staff members from the field called out to Lotor by his royal title, waiting by their carriages packed with old, weathered stone statues.

Lotor glanced behind himself before nodding at Lance. "If you'll excuse me."

"Of course."

Lance lingered by a moment longer before taking advantage of Lotor's absence and fleeing himself, disappearing behind the hedges and into the maze of the courtyard's private garden. Of all places, this pocket of Altea was one of his favorite to sneak off to. He'd simply fallen in love with the wonderful green of the secluded area—so quaint and perfect, the grounds lovely and lush enough that flowerbeds sprouted from nearly every edge of the garden.

At last, he came to the center fountain, and plopped down on weather-beaten lip of it. From the inside of his riding boot, he unpocketed his brown leather journal and let himself soak in the pleasant serenity of the running water. No wedding. No Prince Lotor. No life to be altered.

Lance glanced behind himself and gauged the fountain's holy statue. His heart felt as though it were a tight fist in his chest. His mother had always told him that most Alteans only prayed with heart and soul when they needed something from the Lion Goddess. What Lance needed most was to have his life back. That wasn't possible. If it were, he'd pray to anyone's god, night and day, just to make it so.

In grief, he opened his notebook and jotted down a few phrases that quickly came to his head, his anger turning cursive into chicken scratch.

He wanted out of this more than anything.

Looking to the east, Lance eyed his future. This estate, inherited by Lotor from his father, was triple the size of the one he'd spent his days growing up in. It was a madman's castle, practically. It was everyone's dream but his own.

He tore out the page from his notebook and crumpled it in disgust before miserably burying his head in his hands. Lance choked down a sob. And then, he heard the faint crunch of grass underfoot and shot up quickly. "Lotor?" He asked, rubbing under his nose.

When given no answer, he tilted his head back up to take in the full, massive scope of the estate again. There was something jutting up from the roof between the thin, pointy spires along the perimeter. Until the sunlight shifted from under a wispy bank of clouds, Lance saw it clearly: gargoyles.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" a girl's voice.

Lance didn't so much as jump as he did shiver at the sound, looking across the garden's clearing until he spotted her.

A girl, much close to his age, sat perched on the block of one of the great lion statues. Her knees were drawn up to her chest, her feet bare and sprinkled with blades of grass.

Lance stole a confused glance back at the estate before looking back to her, perking an eyebrow in lieu of words.

"The gargoyles," said the girl. In the strange, honey-like softening of the afternoon sunlight, she looked both brilliant and less real—like something from a painting.

Lance nodded slowly. "Yes, I..." he trailed off before squinting. "Who are you?"

"My name's Romelle," the girl said. She hopped down from her perch on the statue finally. "And you're Lance, aren't you?"

Lance nodded again, standing. "Right. Sorry. What I meant to ask was, _what_ are you doing here?"

A smile emerged on Romelle's face before she flounced up to him in a sprightly manner and grabbed both his hands, bringing them up. "I'm here to make your dreams come true!"

Lance felt himself blush, his gaze darting off. "That's inappropriate," he joked. "I'm engaged to be married."

"But you don't want to be."

Lance turned his gaze back on her and frowned, drawing his hands back to himself. "That doesn't matter," he murmured, and then recited what everyone else would tell him. "I should be happy to marry Prince Lotor. I'm so lucky."

"Oh, pish," Romelle said, turning her head. "You hardly know the man. Who could blame you?"

For a moment of hesitation, Lance was silent, wary of this strange girl. "Try everyone," he pouted finally and swiped his notebook from the fountain's edge. "All everyone ever says here is how happy I should be, or how he's too good for me."

And yet, no one had ever asked if he was good enough for Lance.

"They tell me I'll adjust," Lance continued, hugging himself absently as Romelle slowly walked a circle around him. "Anyone else would be dying to be in my position, I suppose. Besides, even if I wanted to run and lead a life of my own, there's nothing that could protect me from Lotor, or any of his men from finding me."

Lance didn't know why he couldn't stop talking. It was like he suddenly had no filter around this strange girl. He couldn't remember the last time, if ever, that someone had asked him about his say in anything. His thoughts were regularly vaulted to stay in his head nowadays. Now, they couldn't stop from spilling out.

"Such a funny choice of words," Romelle seized her pacing and looked up at him. Her gaze was a mystical violet, her smile reaching her eyes. "Do you need protection?"

"Me?" Lance asked. He scoffed quickly and puffed his chest out. "What do I look like, a damsel in distress?"

"It certainly appears that way," Romelle quipped. "What is it you want out of life, then?"

Lance bit his lip and gave it some thought. There was much he could ask for. "I want adventure. I want...to be the hero of the story. I want to write that story!" he sighed. "But everyone else wants me to get married, settle down, and stand by my perfect husband."

"That's a tragedy," Romelle said crisply.

Lance found that she did not carry her smile anymore. Instead, she was watching him unabashedly, as of to figure what he was all about. Her smile emerged again only after this. This time, it was more of a smirk.

Lance tilted his head. "What is it?"

"You," Romelle said. She tipped her chin up, pointedly staring at the estate before focusing on him. "Your guardian. He's here to protect you."

"Lance!" Lotor's voice rang over the garden.

Birds at the fountain startled and fluttered off. Quickly, Lance whipped around to face the hedges as his fiancé came venturing out from behind the garden wall, his face tiresome.

"I've been looking for you," Lotor said and glanced around. "Is this where you come to write your...poetry?"

"Sometimes," Lance said. "I was just talking to—" He turned to acknowledge Romelle and stopped short of an introduction.

The garden remained empty besides himself and Lotor.

"Lady Ryner's asked of my company up at Olkarion," Lotor went on as if he hadn't heard Lance at all. "She'll be assisting in the ceremony..."

Lance couldn't stop from turning, looking carefully for any sign of Romelle, of where she'd run off too. His brow wrinkled in confusion. Where had she gone? He found himself fixing on the rooftops again. In the afternoon sun, the gargoyles shimmered like mirages.

"Mm. I'm meaning to have those removed by today as well," Lotor said, and Lance realized he was referring to the gargoyles. "My father's knack for the fiendish was quite obvious, as you can tell."

_That explains your mother,_  Lance cleverly withheld as he slid his journal back into the hiding of his boot. "I like them."

They gave the place character, he thought. Of course, it made sense for Lotor to want to take that away, too.

"Please, tell me you're not going to stand around and sulk all day," Lotor said, chastising.

Lance gave him a sideways glare. "I do not sulk!"

"Could have fooled me."

Lance's temper flared. What right did this guy have to behave in such an uppity manner around him? Prince or not, he had no reason to act as if he were entitled to all of Lance's attention, his feelings, his heart. Even if he did drift off into his own land sometimes, it was his only escape from this wretch.

With every intention of firing back, Lance opened his mouth and stopped just as quickly. His eyes watered. He felt so pathetic for how futile a fight would be, and sighed instead, turning his head.

Lotor set a hand on his shoulder and clicked his tongue. "Now, don't get so down on yourself," he said gently, and Lance was almost sure that he would have followed that with the word _pet._ "You're not the only one who's been stressed about this wedding. I'm not trying to invalidate your feelings here, Lance. I know this situation is certainly not ideal, but you have to understand what this is on me, too."

"And what is this on you?" Lance asked, a bite to his voice.

"The expectations of everyone in this town. Your family's, my mother's. Don't you understand what this wedding could bring? My father's diabolic history can finally be beneath us, with you beside me. An Altean and a Galran, joined in the sacred union of marriage. If we could show them just how right we are for one another, it could be the start of an era of peace."

There was a silence that gathered over them like snowfall. "Maybe," Lance concurred softly, but he wasn't fully convinced. He almost felt selfish for it, too, when reminded of what their marriage could mean for Altea.

But, why did it have to be Lance, of all people?

"Maybe it's something you should keep in mind. It'd help if you tried not to resist the idea," Lotor said. Slowly, he brushed Lance's hair behind his ear, and let his knuckles drift down his cheek. "You could even get comfortable sharing a bed with someone besides yourself."

There it was.

Lance's head swam. He couldn't decide whether to laugh or spit venom at him. "I only gave my word to marry you," he said firmly and swatted Lotor's hand from his cheek. " _Nothing_ else."

And to think, he'd nearly fallen for such a crock. Oh, the goodness of Altea. The very notion of sharing a bed with Lotor made Lance sick with dread. He liked holing himself up in his own separate bedroom just fine.

Lotor's face clouded as quickly as Lance put a distance between them. His gentle gaze was far removed. "Please. This is a lifetime of marriage we're talking about. How long do you think you'll be able to hold out with this woeful nonsense before acting like a proper husband?"

Lance swore he felt bile climbing his throat. "Forever, if I have to. I owe you nothing."

The momentary silence from Lotor was sour as decay before he spoke again. "No. Perhaps not. But whether you like it or not, this is going to be your life now," he paused before correcting. "Our life. And if you want to protect the image we're going to uphold, I know there's going to be a few leaps you'll have to be willing to take to make our romance more believable."

Everything out of Lotor's mouth was a threat dressed in a delicate menace. It couldn't hide how awful it was.

"Give it time," he said, sickeningly smug. "You might even like it."

Lance felt as though he were floating in his skin. He really did feel sick now. It truly didn't matter to Lotor how Lance viewed their marriage. He'd twist it to fit his liking no matter what. He always did get what he wanted.

Lance rose on his toes. "You're disgusting." He spat and rounded on his heels. He marched out of the gardens briskly and never once looked back.

This was not his future.

 

ﻬﻬﻬ

 

After his heated discussion with Lotor, Lance had gone to seclude himself in the upstairs library for the remainder of the afternoon. There, he was able to find some peace of mind, keeping nestled in a leather club chair by a tall window, losing himself to his favorite book at the moment— _The Castle of Oriande_. There was no other room in the estate he loved to immerse himself in more than this one.

And what a grand room it was—all dark and polished with the furnishings of several reading chairs, colorful landscape paintings, and an enormous fireplace that took up the whole of the far wall. Overhead, a second-floor gallery crammed with bookcases circled the entire room. When Lance had first moved in, just a mere week ago, it was the first thing to make him grin. He hadn't done that in a while.

Since he could remember, books had always been Lance's form of escapism. It was easily the best way to travel to a land where he could follow someone else's narrative or, when the pen was in his hand, his very own.

Even if it left him alone in reality, he didn't mind.

In the past, be it his advances toward young maidens or men, Lance had been rejected on enough occasions to learn to become content with his presence only. It wasn't too pathetic of a thought—no, not when he'd taught himself to become so accustomed to it. He was good at adapting.

So, ever ready for a change of scene, he turned to the next page of his novel, and wondered where this chapter would transport him next.

However, at some point in the middle of reading, Lance dozed off to the mantel clock's ticking and eventually lulled himself into the tiredness he'd been fighting all afternoon.

In his dream, he remained resting in his chair by the window, overlooking the moonlight-ravaged garden. The holy fountain was shattered now, the angelic sculpture's remains charred and cracked as if struck by lightning.

Romelle was there amongst the wreckage of broken stone and marble. She was just standing there, watching him as shadows of great wings expanded out on the grass behind her. Her lips moved quickly in incantation as the church bell on the hill tolled the midnight hour, blaring loud and resonant over the land.

A pair of eyes flashed before Lance's vision like lightning, dark and indigo imprinting his mind. His insides swirled with a foreign pleasantness. Somehow, he knew in his soul that this was fate speaking to him, and his voice was even more alluring when he said Lance's name, pleasantly raspy and sure. " _Lance_."

No world of words had ever pulled him in quite like this.

There was a hum so low it was nearly a growl. A gleaming set of teeth flashed themselves at Lance, tantalizing incisors ready to draw blood as they bore wide for prey. Even in his sleep, Lance felt a chill traveling up his spine.

_Wake up,_  his mind urged.

A pink tongue darted out and ran hungrily up the top row of canines.

_Wake up!_

The teeth lunged fast for him with a guttural roar.

Lance jolted awake from his dream matted with sweat and gasping for breath. He threw his book down and looked around wildly, relieved to see it was still daytime, and he was still in the library.

It wasn't real.

None of it had been.

"Quiznak," Lance breathed out and sank back into his chair. No more Gothic novels for him.

Somewhere during his shuteye, the sun had gone and hidden beneath the clouds. The sky now was unlike the way it had been earlier. Its promising blue had sunken into a grim kind of gray.

_Fine_ , Lance thought. It suited his mood.

After a moment's hesitation, he rose from his chair finally and blew past the library's pocket doors, striding over to peek down the second-floor's banister. Just below, Lotor stood speaking with a servant in the foyer's entry.

It made Lance wonder.

Should he tell Lotor about his dream? About Romelle? Stars, it likely wouldn't help, but he'd been spooked half to death in his sleep.

And then, there had been those teeth, too.

Lance did a full body shiver. Hurriedly, he went downstairs and caught Lotor just as he was dismissing the servant.

"There was a girl out there," Lance spluttered out quickly.

Lotor appraised this with a raised eyebrow.

"Out in the garden, I mean," Lance elaborated with a point of his finger.

"Just now?" Lotor asked.

"No, earlier. She said her name was Romelle. Do you know a Romelle?"

"I don't."

Odd. Who was she, then?

"Perhaps...she's a neighbor," Lance said, mostly to convince himself otherwise. He hugged himself self-consciously.

"I doubt that," Lotor said and killed Lance's reassurance just as quickly. He glanced past the open front door. "There aren't any neighbors out here for over half a mile."

Lance said nothing, fish-eyed.

"Well," Lotor sighed. "As long as she wasn't threatening, you should be fine. It's likely nothing to fret over."

"I guess not," Lance said, shifting his weight. He pushed out a small laugh to comfort himself. "Goddess, I really should lay off all the caffeine, huh?"

From the back of the parlor, footsteps chased up the black-and-white marble tiles, echoing toward them. Another couple of servants approached Lotor, raising a few cases of luggage. "Where should we put this, Prince Lotor?"

"In the carriage," Lotor signaled out front. "Put it there with the rest of my belongings. I'll be out there in a dobosh."

Lance did a rapid few blinks, watching as the servants went before inquiring. "Did I miss something?"

"I told you, I was heading out to Olkarion for the week," Lotor said. He reached out and stole a satchel off the sideboard behind Lance, shouldering it. "You were listening when I told you out in the garden, right?"

"Ahhh."

"Of course, you weren't," Lotor deadpanned. He looked nothing short of irritated. "I'm taking the servants up with me. There's a lot of handiwork that needs to be done in exchange of Lady Ryner's services toward our wedding ceremony. You'll be manning the estate."

Lance gawked almost instantly. "By myself?" his mouth fell. "You're going to leave me here by _myself_?"

There was a pause before Lotor's mouth slowly spread into something smooth and victorious. "Is that not what you've been wanting?"

And Lance hated everything about it. He wanted to punch him right in his handsome face, just to knock that filthy smug look off, the one that clearly said that Lance was nothing without him.

Well, he was wrong. Dead wrong.

On the contrary, Lance was everything he needed without Lotor. Altea ran through his blood and coursed through his veins. He didn't need anyone's assistance. He could man this estate just fine, servants or not.

"Yes," Lance finally managed to say, challenging Lotor's gaze with a stern one of his own. "I have everything I need."

Lotor kept his smile. "Good," he said and straightened out his waistcoat. "Try not to look so dour while I'm gone, then, will you?"

With his pinkies, Lance pressed into the dimples of his cheeks and made show of a big, phony grin.

"That's the spirit."

As if challenging Lance's patience, Lotor hooked a hand behind his neck and pressed cold, firm kiss to his cheek.

Lance felt himself shrivel up from inside. He shoved hard at Lotor's chest with enough force to make him stagger back. "Have a safe trip," he said coldly and imagined Lotor's carriage veering off a cliff's edge. It made him find his smile again.

After righting himself, Lotor let out a small hum and went for the door as the remaining servants bustled on out. He stopped only to acknowledge Lance over his shoulder once more. "Oh, and by the way," he lifted a finger up. "I've left a gift for you upstairs. In the West Wing's sunroom. The attic's far too overcrowded."

"How considerate of you," Lance said breezily.

"I thought you might like it," Lotor said. "He's quite fiendish."

 

ﻬﻬﻬ

 

Somehow, having an empty estate all to himself was even lonelier that Lance had imagined.

After the servants and Lotor had vacated, Lance had spent the better part of his evening indulging in having the space all to himself. Dancing through the hallways, singing to nothing in particular, raiding the kitchen's pantry for sweets and wine. By the time the night rolled around, he'd wiped himself out and waged to relax at the dining room table to focus on penning in on his poetry.

That plan hadn't gone accordingly.

With the night, a raging storm had also washed in, and turned the iron sky to dusk. As he tried to concentrate for the billionth time, wind thundered over the roof of the estate like a ghostly herd and drew his tired eyes from the pages in his journal.

It didn't at all help with the writing. Every strike of lightning sent a shiver-inducing echo throughout the corridors of the spacious manor. Eventually, Lance set his pen down and glowered down the length of the dining room table, hoping an idea would materialize and inspire him.

He needed something from the heart.

Lightning cracked at the high windows again, making him jump in his chair as another boom rattled the coffered walls.

"For quiznak's sake," Lance muttered and slapped his notebook shut, scraping his chair out and rising. He went for the fireplace at the far wall in brisk steps and swiped a chamberstick off the mantle, borrowing flame from the fire for the candle's wick.

If he couldn't write, he may as well go on and busy himself with exploring for the rest of the evening. It was the very least for a source of entertainment, but it was one thing he hadn't done yet. Since he'd moved in, Lance had regularly avoided going anywhere besides his bedroom and the library. Anywhere had been better if it was Lotor free, and now that the rest of the estate was, what was stopping him now?

After crossing back to the main foyer and ascending the stairs, Lance made his way down the corridor of the estate's West Wing in slow, apprehensive steps, the chamberstick in his hand barely offering enough glow to see more than a few feet before him. In passing, photographic portraits of Lotor's various dead relatives hung on the walls, their grainy faces vacant of expression. It felt as though he was being followed by their sightless eyes as he went by, sending shivers tickling up his spine.

Finally, he met the hall's end and opened the final door to reveal a grand turret staircase of marble. Enthused, he chased up the steps until he came bursting through the other side and stumbled helplessly into the bright sunroom at last.

Moonlight streamed in fat bars through the wall of windows, illuminating the parlor in a ghoulish blue. Lance set aside his chamberstick on top of an old dresser and took in what must have been a beautiful sunroom back in its day. Much of the furniture taking up the space had been draped in white sheets, making it appear more like a graveyard than a home.

"What a tomb," Lance whispered to himself and walked on through the clutter of neglected objects.

As he sought out for something significant in the room, there sat a card on a particularly tall and broad piece of furniture, also dressed in a white sheet. It was addressed to his name. Lance picked it up and read over the backside.

_I understand you would prefer we preserve a little history. Hopefully, this can be a good start for the both of us. This one has been around since my father._

_I'll seen you soon._

_— Lotor_

Lance rolled his eyes and tossed the card aside with a chuff. If this was Lotor's manner of extending the olive branch, he wouldn't have it. Nothing Lotor ever did was out of sincerity.

Still, despite himself, something was building in the back of Lance's head, thrumming and pulsing as he scaled the phantasmic white dressing of his gift. Fear or panic or excitement that he was about to discover something important. He went on to fist at the sheet and gave it a great yank, unveiling his present to the rest of the parlor.

A mighty clap of lightning flashed the room and startled Lance to his rear with a shriek. When he stuck his chin up, he saw _him_ at last.

The gargoyle.

Slowly, Lance rose to his feet and blinked in a mute daze as he familiarized himself with the statue.

He was broad-shouldered and tall, even in this pose—with one clawed hand braced on a knee. From his head, big, jagged ears stuck out, as did lupine fangs from his parted mouth. Nonetheless, they were hardly a sum of his parts, when what struck Lance as odd the most was his very human-like appearance.

When he found his voice finally, Lance pushed out a wispy little laugh. "Fiendish, are you?" he rose on the toes of his boots and hung his arms up in the imitation of a wild grizzly. "Grrrr."

Heavy rain slapped wearily at the windows as he took a seat beside his kneeling gargoyle and gazed up at its strangely delicate craft. For a moment, it felt as though the moon had stolen closer, and the gargoyle appeared more like a severe angel in this lighting than the image of a demon. Every limb, every muscle and contour of his face had a war-weary kind of rigidness that Lance had never seen before. He was lean from battle with eyes that had an intense, unseeing sorrow to them.

How could that be captured in stone?

Lance stifled a small laugh. "Mm. You're not so beastly... In fact, I'll bet you were chiseled by the hands of angels," he laid a hand on the gargoyle's shoulder. "Weren't you?"

Somehow, the one-sided flirt of conversation entertained him more than anything had as of recently. Even the silence was good company.

Only when he looked further upon the face of his gargoyle did Lance's heart sink pitifully in his chest.

What a torture it must be to stay frozen in time like this. Lance could understand that feeling. With every passing day that inched closer to the wedding, he could feel himself floating from reality, spacing out just to get away from the tangled mess of his life. In a matter of days, he'd be trapped, too, much like this stone creature here. Forever sorrowful, frozen in his own skin.

If that was his was fate, it was certainly cruel to cheat him of life like that.

From the gargoyle's shoulder, Lance's hand wandered from the muscle of the stone's back to its high arching wings. Their shape resembled that of a bat's. "And what great wings you have, too," he murmured softly. He ran his hand up and down the weathered stone as though to pet it. "Great enough to carry us both far away from here, yeah? You would do that for me, wouldn't you..? See, we're bother prisoners here. I'm doomed as much as you are."

Slowly, a tingling sensation gathered itself at the tip of Lance's nose, a tearful flush rising to his cheeks. And for what? The expectations of his family? Of the town that did nothing for him?

_What about me?_

Lance dragged in a long, stuttering breath. He swallowed his tears in surprise of the enormity of his own emotions. "I'd tell you to fly away from here, too," he said with a bite, and warm tears spilled down his cheeks anyway, dribbling onto the slab of the gargoyle's platform. "I'd tell you to get as far away from here as you can, and to not look back."

Goddess knows, if Lance had the chance, he'd do just that. If he could only find the courage to take that advice himself.

Thunder ricocheted from the outside again, echoing through the turret stairwell.

Lance woke from his grief in steady blinks. The slate-colored surface of his gargoyle glittered in the waning moonlight, gentle winks of light sincere as beauty. As if in a trance, he traced his fingertips up the gargoyle's jaw and cradled it in wonder as he came to the revelation of why it felt so familiar in the first place. He leaned in slowly, stolen of air as he gazed upon the face of his stone demon.

Those eyes.

The room was illuminated as a bolt of lighting struck just outside the estate and cracked down in a mighty, blinding clap; one that seemed to shake the very grounds of Altea. Lance heard the collapse of stone as his vision whited out and sent him staggering back from the statue.

After shielding his eyes, a strangely loud noise erupted from in front of him and touched the very core of his soul. Something between a cracking and a crack _ling_ , but much, much bigger.

A splintering like bones, like the pop of joints curdling and twisting into place. It sounded like ice breaking across a frozen pond, and brought with it an accompanying dread as Lance found the courage to remove his arms from his face and behold the horrific scene that was unfolding in front of him.

All at once, his breath left his body. Cold flooded his veins, and his world began to turn.

His gargoyle. His _creature_ was splintering himself out of his stone prison, pebbles and dust falling from his gargoyle form. Human limbs flexed and cracked into view between fissures of broken rock. His pale face was screaming through a cloud of debris as his wings twisted themselves free and stretched out magnificently.

The creature's eyes were empty of everything except an animalistic anger. There was no spark of the intelligence or humanity Lance had seen in them earlier as he bellowed madly and broke an arm free in another painfully grating _snap_.

Lance was paralyzed in his spot, gaping in terror before instinct finally kicked in and sent him bolting for the stairwell. He flew down the turret without looking back once and raced blindly down the hall, taking the steps down to the foyer two and three at a time. As he sprinted to the front door, he came to a skidding halt and bounced on the balls of his feet anxiously.

His next plan of action? Where the hell would he go?

There weren't any neighbors for another half a mile. Any guards Lotor could have left lingering by the estate may as well be so far, too. There was no doubt in his mind that the creature up there, with those giant wings, wouldn't catch him and have his head before he could so much as make it past the property's end.

As he fretted in a panic, the loud bong of the church bell on the hill rang throughout the land, a raucous toll through the rain. Midnight.

Lance whipped his head back in the direction of the estate's courtyard. The church.

He could hide out in the old church until the coast was clear. He'd ring the bell relentlessly until help came, he'd be saved!

Lance broke into a mad dash until he came bursting out through the back doors of the manor. He flung himself into the storm, nearly slipping in his haste to run down the porch as rain bleated down on him mercilessly. The grove of trees leading up the hill was all he had in sight as his feet carried him as fast as they could.

As he fled past the courtyard and through the clearing of the rest of field, he was hardly allowed so much as a hopeful smile before a heart-stopping noise pierced the air. Lance froze to look over his shoulder as glass glittered in the midnight sky from the sunroom's parlor.

It happened in such a profound way that it felt as though life itself were moving in slow motion.

The creature had sprung out into the night. He and his wings were a dark silhouette before the moon, beating for flight in slow, menacing flaps against the rain. He was a faceless shadow, grim and silent, but Lance knew, he could _feel_ himself being stared at—studied, stalked.

Blanching, he swallowed his fear in one thick gulp. His lungs felt like paper as he screamed with all his might, the growl of thunder drowning out his voice. "Leave me alone!"

The creature cocked its head slowly.

"Leave me—!" Mid-shout, the creature swept into a dive and began hurtling itself towards Lance. "Quiz—!"

Lance could barely utter a curse before he was sprinting to the church hill again, his blood galloping in his veins as his vision blurred and the cosmos themselves began to unravel as he prayed to the Lion Goddess for what would be his final chance.

A vision of darkness collided into the muddy, plum-cake grounds of Altea before him, heavy as stone, loud as rock. A shriek erupted from Lance and sent him reeling back.

Both brilliant and as terrible as an avenging warrior, the once leering gargoyle from earlier rose to a stance, the high arches of his wings formidable shadows against the moon’s light. He was all flesh now—drenched head-to-toe, donning his tattered trousers only. His bare chest was heaving as though he'd flown miles.

Time itself stretched out like an unspun wool between them, holding Lance in a vice-like fear until he blurted foolishly. "Goddess, you're naked!"

Ignoring his comment, the creature stormed toward Lance with the vehemence of an angry wolf. Lance watched him come with apprehension crawling all over his face, never daring to run away, unflinching even when he's grabbed by the front of his dress shirt and lifted to his toes. Brimstone filled his every senses, the hellish tang of sulfur coating his throat as he squeezed his eyes shut and braced.

The creature holding him made a noise so low it was nearly a growl. "Look at me," he demanded. His voice was lined with something dark, almost like another voice layered beneath, enshrouded.

Lance peeked an eye open. He was being stared at intently by the creature, the man, whatever it was.

"Was it you who woke me?" the creature asked.

Lance blinked guilelessly, the rabbit-quick pounding of his heartbeat rivaling the noise of the rain shrouding them. "What?"

The creature gave Lance good enough a shake to draw a yelp and asked again impatiently. "Did you wake me?!"

"Aaah, aah! I don't—I di—Yes, yes, I did! It was me!"

At that, the creature seemed to blow a puff of smoke through his nose and lowered Lance to his feet again, not letting go, but looking to the empty side of the moor instead. He appeared contemplative as Lance gawked up at him helplessly in suspense.

"This was the work of an enchantress," the creature said, a muscle clenching at the cut of the his jaw. His eyelids were heavy as his voice became clear and normal as one. "I'm here as your guardian, then."

A starstorm of lightning bugs swirled around them in silence as an abruptly hot kind of rage flooded Lance suddenly and propelled him to yell. "Excuse me?!"

"I'm here to protect you," the creature elaborated neutrally, ignorant of Lance's newfound fury.

"I don't need protection!"

"Then you need to be saved."

Lance sputtered at that and began to shed his prior terror like an unwanted coat. "You're crazy, man! The only thing I need to be saved from is _you_!"

The creature nodded absently, unhearing as he fixed his attention on the manor behind Lance now. His wings expanded. "Right."

"You terrorized me!" Lance continued. "You practically hunted me, and you're telling me that you're here to be my guardian! You're as batty as you look, if you think—!"

"Hold fast," the creature interrupted. He tucked Lance close to his body, minding the protesting squawk, and took flight.

"I don't need protec— _sho!_ "

They took to the sky in one booming glide up, wind and water kissing Lance's cheeks as they flew back to the sprawling manor. He barely had room to scream and flail, the creature keeping him caged in his arms and nestled tightly to his chest as they flew onward.

On the short journey home, Lance caught a bird's eye view of the courtyard's garden. Where the fountain's holy statue once stood laid the rubble of stone and rock, split and charred by the fresh strike of lightning.

Just like in his dream.

 

ﻬﻬﻬ

 

The corners of the dining room were shadowy as firelight licked up the hearth at the far wall, casting an eerie amber against the rest of the room. Lance's feet dangled from where he'd been left to perch on the table, soaking wet and scowling as the creature rummaged through the big hutch on the side wall. Beside him sat a basket of half a baguette, a nice piece of cheese, and some grapes the creature had scrounged from the kitchen.

"What are you looking for?" Lance dared to ask tartly.

The creature took his respective half of bread out of his mouth, muffling around a mouthful. "Bandages. Where are they?"

"Top right," Lance supplied flatly and touched his chest. The fabric there had been ribboned to shreds. "Your claws ruined my favorite dress shirt."

The creature threw him enough of a glare to make him go silent again as he popped open the top right cabinet, and then drew out a small wooden box of medical supplies. He set it down on the tabletop beside Lance and, while minding their proximity, gave him a good view of the all the cuts he'd acquired in the haste of bursting out of the sunroom's window.

Mind that wild stunt, no ordinary being had ever broken free of a stone enchantment before. Such a thing had never been heard of. That alone had been enough of a reason for Lance to not dare and test the strengths of a creature who could be capable of that. The strength of an Altean might not even compare to whatever this once gargoyle was. Lance's supposed guardian, he claimed to be.

"What's your name?" Lance asked as the creature fumbled with the latch of the supply box. When fixed with a confused glare, he leaned forward and opened it for the creature himself with a flick of his thumb.

The creature raised a brow. "You're a little brazen, aren't you?"

"I'm Lance," Lance tipped his chin up defiantly. "Name, please."

"It's Keith."

Lance gave a wheezy little laugh. "You're serious?"

Keith deadpanned and tore his eyes from Lance. He took a fat spool of gauze from the supply box quietly.

"Oh," Lance said softly. He watched in silence as Keith unraveled the gauze between his hands, growing less leery by the tick.

The creature—Keith—was a lot less frightening in this atmosphere. Or rather, he wasn't frightening at all compared to the kind of creatures Lance had met in the past. He was boyish and soft-faced in the glow of dining room, his wings and ears drooping now and making him look like some wounded puppy of a halfling. He was familiarly human, too, handsome with thick and expressive eyebrows. If it weren't for their uncanny way of meeting, Lance might even fancy him.

Keith's fangs caught in the tape of gauze at a failed attempt to rip a shred for himself.

Lance rolled his eyes. "Let me," he took the gauze hastily and sorted through what else remained in the box. "You're like a child, you know?"

Keith was grouchily quiet as he offered Lance his wounded arm.

Lance inspected the slice on his bicep carefully and took a hissing breath before grabbing for a pair of tweezers. "There's a little glass in this one," he said and picked at the feeble piece. Keith's wings did a mild twitch, and he winced as it was removed.

"How many years has it been?" Keith asked after a beat.

"Since when?"

"Since Zarkon."

Lance set aside the tweezers and looked up at Keith, pursing his lips curiously. "You were you around? When Zarkon was..?"

"You look surprised," Keith lowered his arm. His ears fell more, if possible. "It's been that long, huh."

"A few decopheobs," Lance said and did a casual shrug. He pulled out a vial of antiseptic from the supply box and doused a cotton pad before pressing it over Keith's wound. "Was that the last time you were awake?" He tried for curious.

If he was being frank with himself, Lance wanted to thoroughly investigate this Keith, whoever he was. Whatever he was.

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

"I'm here to take care of your business," Keith said curtly. "You don't need to know me."

"You were just a statue living in my sunroom a few doboshes ago," Lance's face turned sour. "And now you're walking and talking, and bleeding all over the place. I think I deserve to know something!"

Keith's expression appeared to shift with recognition after that. "The sunroom. That's right," he narrowed his focus on Lance's face. "You were crying."

Lance removed his hand from Keith's arm. His cheeks grew hot.

"Something about a prisoner," Keith said and furrowed a brow. "You were talking about running away. Is that why you were you crying?"

"That—We are _not_ talking about this," Lance quickly wiped at the wound on Keith's arm, gentle despite his annoyance. "Besides it being none of your business, you're not going to solve my problems. I have nothing to do with you. And I certainly don't need a guard—!" He froze in his words, aghast.

The wound on Keith's bicep was sealing itself, healing and mending the split skin that he'd just properly cleaned.

"You're...self-healing?" Lance asked. His eyes trailed to the expanse of Keith's broad chest, where the remnants of his other cuts were. He rubbed a cotton pad over another blood spot and saw that there was no slice underneath anymore.

Keith looked just as shocked as he did. His face was pinched when he quietly said, "I've never done that before."

Lance's quick mind reviewed what he'd just heard. His eyes moved up Keith's face, where a burn mark of a scar marred a tight V from his jaw to his cheek.

"That one hasn't healed yet," he pointed innocently.

"Of course, it hasn't healed," Keith scoffed as Lance shut the supply box. "I acquired it in battle."

_Aha_. Lance allowed himself a smile. "Battle, hm. That's funny. If there was a wound on your body that hadn't healed itself yet, wouldn't it have to be there because you were alive once?"

There was silence. Keith shifted awkwardly. "You're a clever Altean," he said with some grudging admiration. "Yes. I was alive."

"What are you, then?" Lance asked, perking with a little victory as he eagerly pressed. "And why can't you talk about yourself? Is it forbidden? Like, by a curse or a spell?" He hadn't even realized he was leaning in until a clawed finger was nudging him back.

"Easy," Keith's mouth had the slightest tilt of a smirk. "And...no, it's not forbidden. I'd just prefer not to get into my life. It's not very interesting."

"Oh, I disagree! You were a gargoyle for decapheobs! One who came across an enchantress, at that."

"That's the thing," Keith's gaze fell. "An enchantress wouldn't curse you. But a witch would."

Lance eyes grew dazzled with wonder. A witch's work. That only sounded like the twist of a hundred or so of the stories he'd read about in his books. Of witches and princes and warriors. Now here he was, starring in his own adventure with someone who was practically ripped off the pages of one.

"Why are you making that face?" Keith asked.

Lance shook his head out of the clouds, embarrassed to be caught daydreaming. "What face?" He asked and played innocent with a guilty little conscience.

"Never mind," Keith said. He glanced at the table and eyed the basket there before looking at Lance again. "Do you have any food that isn't meant to feed a rabbit?"

Lance feigned a little pout. "Oh, was the half of baguette not filling enough?"

"I haven't eaten in decapheobs, Lance."

"Hold your horses." Lance flashed a kittenish smile and went. Tonight was about to chalk up to an interesting story for his journal.

As he set up a thick broth to boil for Keith in the privacy of the manor's kitchen, Lance began theorizing all the possible reasons for him being here.

It was fateful, wasn't it? That all this time, he'd been praying for adventure and, at last, it'd finally found him right before the start of his new life. Or, dreadfully, at the end of this one he loved so much. Tucking that thought to the back of his mind, Lance returned to the dining room shortly, carrying a silver tray of food back to the table.

"I hope you don't mind beef stew. It's all I could warm up—" Lance stopped short on a gasp.

At the table, Keith had a familiar brown leather notebook between his hands, eyes focused and moving intently over the pages—over Lance's stories, his words, his feelings.

With a sharp _clink_ , Lance set the tray of food down on the table and wrenched his journal out of Keith's hands. "That's private! Don't you know better than to go snooping around in someone's else's business?"

"It was just lying there," Keith said.

"Well, that's not an excuse or good table etiquette!"

There was shame in Keith's gaze, but not for himself. "I'm sorry," he blinked up apologetically. "It's sad. I mean, it's—you write well. But it's...unhappy."

"Stories can be unhappy," Lance said and crossed his arms as if they were a shield. His passion cooled. "I just haven't had any inspiration for sunshine and rainbows as of late. Understand?"

Keith's gaze lingered with something dubious, as if he were prompting for more out of Lance. He turned his attention back on his warm meal wordlessly, bringing the bowl of soup to his lips and chugging like a starving animal.

"There's utensils, you know," Lance said quietly, but it really didn't matter. His mind was still lingering on Keith's apparent interest in him, and why. What was his purpose? Why was he so convinced he was to be Lance's guardian?

Lance seated himself with a final wide-eyed once-over of Keith's wings. He tried not to stare so much. "Why were you cursed, Keith?"

Keith let his emptied bowl down shortly. "Haggar," he muffled a belch into the crook of his elbow, and Lance wrinkled his nose. Although Keith's gaze was unseeing, there was a fire within them, and not just from the reflection of the hearth. He had a memory there.

"Zarkon's witch," Lance supplied.

"Zarkon's wife," Keith said. "But everyone probably knows her as Honerva."

"She's still alive, you know. She's living in Daibaazal. She hasn't stepped foot on Altean ground since the war. She's refused until—" Lance stopped short of finishing that sentence.

Until the wedding, of course. Lotor made plenty sure that she would be attending for their ceremony despite what the town thought of it, given her late husband's violent history and all. After the war, Lotor had spent many years rebuilding his image, removing his father from anything related to him to regain Altea's trust. Lo and behold, it had worked like a charm. He was marrying Lance now, after all. One of their own.

The unwelcomed thought of marriage made Lance's stomach tighten again, like sensing the first drops of rain on a planned picnic. Somewhere between his gloominess, Keith had risen from his chair and began walking around the dining room, eyeing the area with a judgmental squint. He stopped by the fireplace and rested a hand on the mantel.

"It's no use in prying. I can't change how I'm like this anyway. I'm just here to do my job."

"And be my guard dog?" From where he kept his arms crossed, Lance tapped a finger against his arm. "I have guards. Plenty."

"Not now, you don't."

"I—"

"And what's to stop them if there were to be a creature," Keith's voice, tauntingly, dropped. "Like myself, from touching a precious little hair on your head?"

Lance could feel himself reddening. "I thought you were gonna eat me!"

"Clearly, I haven't," Keith said, a light and absurd laugh underlying his voice.

From where he stood, Lance could see carvings of firelight dancing along the muscles of Keith's bare shoulder blades, along his wings—the very same parts he'd been running his hands along earlier in the sunroom. Lance felt every bit like a scoundrel for it now and favored to put his mind off it. If Keith could just cover up, that'd be great.

"Well, as you can see," Lance spread his hands wide and smiled, big and phony. "I'm doing just fine."

"You have no protection here."

"I don't need protection," Lance chirped matter of factly. "I'm Altean."

Keith turned over a small ivory carving in his hand. He set it back on the mantelpiece and glanced over his shoulder, an equally knowing smirk on his face. "Not all Altean."

There was quiet. Lance wiggled in his chair as if to shimmy off his nerves before admitting. "I'm only Earthling on my father's side."

Keith's eyes dragged down Lance's person. His smile was enigmatic. "So am I."

Suddenly flustered, Lance cleared his throat and dropped his gaze. "That's interesting."

So, he'd been right. He was surprised, but he'd been right. Keith _was_ human. But only partially.

"I'm guessing the wings weren't something you were born with," he continued, finding the courage to meet Keith's gaze again. He sighed. "Look, at the very least, you can let me help find a way to lift whatever curse has been put on you."

Keith's smile fell. "You can't."

"I can," Lance said and knit his brows in offense. "Haggar was able to put a curse on you because she's a witch who's practiced Altean magic for years. I'm Altean, and everyone knows that no matter what, we all possess a little magic. If there's a spell that I can find somewhere, or even a book, I might be able to learn it, help you out a little, just so you don't look so..."

"Beastly?"

"I was going to say fiendish."

With a roll of his eyes, Keith returned to where Lance remained seated at the table, his expression one not in the mood for any nonsense. "If I say yes, will you let me stay? To look after you?"

Lance tilted his head and squinted coyly. "Do I have a choice?"

"You don't."

"Worth a shot," Lance shrugged. "Okay, then."

There was regret seeping into Keith's expression already, his arms remaining crossed as he shook his head and looked up to the ceiling. "Even if you want to help, where the hell are you gonna find a spell book?"

"Uh, hello?" Lance stood from his seat and gestured all around them. "This is her old residence, mind you," his smile turned devious the next instant. "And I know just where she'd hide one."

 

ﻬﻬﻬ

 

"I found a few more older books that might help," Keith said as he came lumbering down the corkscrew staircase in the corner of the library. He plopped the stack down on a nearby reading table, where sat several other piles of books they'd spent the past few hours going through, all to no avail.

Lance blinked his weary eyes, smacking his temple as if to gently knock the word wooziness out of himself. He raised the book he'd been currently reading from where it lay on his chest, inspecting the pages and absorbing zero words.  "Are they spell books, or are they _about_ spell books? Or, no, let me guess, the history of spell books!"

"You wanted to look," Keith folded his arms and shrugged. "I told you, she wouldn't hide something as important as a book of spells in her own library."

"That's exactly what she would want us to think!"

Keith gave him a grievous look and leaned against the table as if waiting for the words that might make him care. It was at least easier to meet his gaze now. On their way to the library, Lance had found a dark cape and hood to drape over Keith's mostly naked self. Now, his wings were kept tucked away from sight, tightly hidden under velveteen fabric. He almost passed by Altean standards as normal. Almost.

"I know we're close, Keith," Lance said and found the vigor to sit up properly. "I can feel it. Besides, if at first you don't succeed, all you can do is try and try again. That's what my mother used to say."

"Did she ever have to aid a cursed Galran halfbreed in finding a book of spells?"

"No," Lance muttered begrudgingly, pursing his lips. He crossed his ankles and leaned forward. "Hey, you never answered my question, by the way."

Keith raised an eyebrow.

"Why did Haggar curse you?" Lance asked. "I mean, you just said now, you're Galran. Why would she curse one of her husband's own men?"

In the golden cast of the fireplace's light, Lance caught the clench of Keith's jaw. "She didn't," he let out a sigh. "I was never one of Zarkon's men. I was actually aiding Alfor, along with a team of other Galrans. We were an organization of rebels."

Lance felt his eyes go wide. In the past, he'd heard rumors about Galrans who'd aided Zarkon's enemy in the war, but that was just something heard through the grapevine. Everyone had talked about it, but no one ever truly knew, for the fact that those Galrans were never seen or heard from after the war. To have one of those rebels standing before him now was almost dumbfounding.

"We called ourselves the Blade of Marmora," Keith continued, his gaze soft on the hearth beside them. "I was a part of the group, along with my mom, and plenty of other trusted soldiers. Some who weren't even Galran. Humans, like us," he smiled at Lance, a gentle thing. "Partially, I mean."

"Where are they now?"

"Gone," Keith said. His voice sounded wounded, cracking. "Or like me. I have to imagine they're still out there. Mom, Shiro, even Kolivan. I can't be the only one of us remaining. I know I'm not."

"They must be cursed, too," Lance said, and immediately feared he was sounding too sure of himself. He couldn't help it. He wanted to believe it, too. For his sake, for Keith's.

"I hate to say I hope so," Keith said. "I still remember what that witch said, right before I'd taken my final breaths. How I'd betrayed my own blood by taking Alfor's side, letting a noble man like Zarkon fall to his sword... But Zarkon wasn't a noble man. He's— He was a monster."

Another silence weighed on the atmosphere around them before Keith gestured to himself, lip curled in disgust. "Now look at me."

"You're not a monster, Keith," Lance said quietly. His heart sank in his chest like a stone cast in a river, heavy for his cursed guest.

Keith didn't see what he did. He wasn't a monster, didn't even look the part. He was simply a man who'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and who'd faced the brunt of a punishment he didn't deserve, just for doing what was right. Above all, he was brave, and more noble than Zarkon ever could have been.

"It's kind of funny," Keith spoke up again. "I spent so many years alive trying to do things on my own. I chose to be alone, because I thought I could be content with that. It was only after being away from humanity for so many years that I began to realize the most precious things in life. Friends... Family," he paused and chanced a glance Lance's way. "Love."

There was a feverish burn circling Lance's cheeks, a flame of nerves igniting there and crawling all the way down to his toes. He curled them in his boots in a fidgeting habit. More than anything now, he wanted to find that damn book to distract himself from his wandering mind, and from how effective Keith's words were on it.

"You're here now," Lance showed his own smile, toothier in comparison to Keith's own. "You're a good man, Keith. And whether it was the work of an enchantress or the Lion Goddess herself, now's your chance to rejoin humanity," he touched his chest and stuck his chin out proudly. "And you're lucky I have the privilege of being able to help you do just that."

A small laugh fell from Keith's lips, one that made Lance grin like mad. "Oh, I'm lucky?"

"Look, it's no coincidence you show up on the day I pray for an adventure," Lance said. "Well, I guess I've prayed for one for many days, but today especially! It may as well start now, while I still have time."

Keith arched a brow. "Is that something you're running short on?"

"It is," Lance could feel himself wilting again as he began to explain the story of his situation. About his arranged marriage with Honerva's son, Lotor. About his sheer distaste for the prince, for how miserable he made him. About his guilt to do it for the town that did him no favors.

By the time it all came out, there was something tight in Keith's expression, the library's fire carving something sharp and intense on his face. "You shouldn't have to marry someone you don't want to," he said. "Why not run away? Shouldn't now be your chance, while he's gone?"

"You don't get it," Lance said tersely, knowing how visibly vexed he was. "This wasn't my choice to begin with. If I refuse his hand, everyone here will just consider me selfish for not wanting to help move Altea forward. They're so excited to see one of their own marry into Galran royalty. After all the years of feud we've had, after what Zarkon did to all of us, why wouldn't they?"

"Then they should pawn off someone else. Someone who actually wants to marry him. How is that fair to you?"

"It isn't," Lance said. He bent forward and let his body speak his misery in a slouch. "So excuse me if I'm a little cagey on talking about him. In fact, I'd prefer not to talk about Lotor at all. He's a selfish snake who always gets what he wants when he wants it. I'm just not ready for it to be me."

A solid few ticks from the library's mantel clock went by before Keith moved from the table and began mounting the sliding ladder by the fireplace. "We should keeping looking," he suggested after a deep breath. Lance was at least appreciative of his ability to read the mood. "Maybe there's a proper history book around here."

"Well, let's see," Lance stood himself, thinking. "Anything that looks dog-eared might help. Something that chronicles Altean history, specifically. If we can just find a book of records, we might even be able to narrow our search down to a name that can actually help us..."

As he trailed off, Keith lifted a candlestick off a short stack of books sitting on the fireplace's mantel.

"Maybe we're trying too hard to see things plainly," Lance said, pulling at the spines of more books to view their covers. "Maybe it goes by another name."

Keith let out an exasperated huff. "There's nothing like that here! Just some stuff on quint-essential grimoire."

Lance waited.

Keith was silent for a moment.

"Oh," he finally said. "Guess I found it."

They huddled together on the rug before the fireplace afterwards, sharing the book between their laps, each taking a turn peering over pages that had yellowed with age. There was a fair amount of Altean script littered for spells on everything imaginable. Summoning, love, death, fortune, _mis_ fortune. Sorcery was limitless and, to Lance, equally terrifying.

The silence dragged out between them until they flipped to a new page, where most of the text was now scratched out in haggard lines.

Lance felt his heart clench. He knew.

Keith underlined the text at the top of the page with a clawed finger. "Spirit thing of the night," he tapped at a circular symbol beside it, scrunching his face. "I can't read Altean."

Piteously, Lance closed his eyes, swallowing. "It's...a transformation spell. A curse." When he looked down, he saw finally that the reversal spell area of the page had been demolished and rendered completely illegible. Clever hag.

"She must've known someone would come looking for it," Keith said.

Lance gave him a sidelong glance and watched his ears droop back slowly. Truly, he wasn't sure what he should have expected from their search, but the look on Keith's face didn't ease any of his disappointment in their findings, or lack thereof. Most of all, he felt disappointed in himself for even suggesting to look in the first place, and especially for getting that flicker of hope in Keith's eyes.

"I told you it was useless," Keith muttered. He looked as though he might retreat into his wings any second now, the line of his mouth tight and sour as he moved from the rug to sulk on the chaise.

Without meaning to, the words tumbled from Lance's mouth. "We can't give up—"

"It's _over_ , Lance!" Keith snapped and Lance fell blessedly quiet. There was hurt flashing in his eyes. "It's no use anymore. I'm done looking for a bunch of dead ends."

"I'm sorry," Lance murmured. He could hear the tire in Keith's voice. It was his fault for pursuing the optimistic, and for wearing the other out like this.

Keith shook his head solemnly after a pause. "It's not your fault," he said softly. "She outsmarted us by decapheobs. Probably knew some idiots would come looking for it eventually. It wouldn't have mattered if we'd found it anyway. We'd have better luck holding a seance for the book's dead author before we tried performing a gateway spell ourselves."

On instant, Keith's words rose a bell to go off in Lance's head. He perked his head quickly a turned over the spell book in his hands to read the spine. "Wimbleton Smythe," Lance squinted. "That name..."

Chin in hand, Keith nodded. "Sounds like a dead man's."

"No!" Lance said, beaming shortly. "Smythe's Tavern! Coran Smythe!"

Keith perked a brow.

"Coran _Wimbleton_ Smythe is an Altean who owns a tavern in town," Lance elaborated as he went to his feet. "He's a bit of a sorcerer in Altean witchcraft, but I certainly didn't know his great great grandfather wrote one of the most ancient spell books! Goddess, if there's even a chance of him remembering the contents of this book, there might even be a chance of getting you back to normal."

Yet again, Keith gave him that particular wary look.

Lance inhaled deeply before saying, "I'm going to go and find him."

"You're insane," Keith said, deadpanning. On an exhausted breath, he rose to his feet as well. "Fine. Then I'm going with you."

"With me?" Lance asked, hating how shrill his voice came out. "Oh, no. You'll stick out like a sore thumb. Everyone'll think you're some sort of fiend!"

"Well, you're not going by yourself. What kind of guardian would I be if I let you go alone?"

"You're not my guardian."

"Yes, I am. And I'm going with you."

"No, you're not," Lance repeated. "And you're staying right here."

Keith rolled his eyes and pinched his lips together in a taut line. "Alright, turn around."

"Why?" Lance asked.

"Because you're not going to want to see this."

"Oh, there's more to see?"

"Just—shut up and trust me, okay?"

On his last protesting sigh, Lance rotated to face the gallery wall, muttering Keith's words to himself in a bitter mimicry. When on the inside, he was very much trying to maintain his composure. Just because he was getting used to having Keith around didn't mean he was scared any less of the nature of his company. It wasn't what he could do, per se, but what he was capable of. That was when that obscene cracking noise erupted behind him.

Pulse pounding in his neck, Lance willed himself to stay facing the shelves as the sound of bone grinding and snapping against bone progressed in an ugly rhythm until the library was silent again besides the continuous sputter of the fireplace.

As if relenting a breath, Keith spoke again. "You can look now."

Lance shifted slowly to turn and face him, keeping his eyes squinted with worry until he was met with waiting indigo ones. "Oh."

Apart from the fuzzy Galran ears, Keith's more fiendish features were out of sight. His wings were gone, his fangs not as protruded, and with a further look down, his claws had retreated into normal, blunt fingertips.  

"Doesn't that hurt you?" Lance blinked.

"It might later," Keith smiled stiffly. "I'll manage, though. Don't worry."

But Lance's concern no longer lied in his wings. It didn't matter that Keith could manage, but that he bore down the pain of it anyway. There was so much surety in the smile he showed Lance, so unlike the bitter half-Galran he thought he was. He was kind enough for this one thing, no matter how stubborn Lance was on taking him into town.

Nonetheless, Lance should pull his mind out of the gutter now. They had an objective tonight.

"You should change out of those rags," Lance said primly and turned quickly to leave the library. Keith's gaze followed him on his way out. "There's a big room to your right on the far end of the hall going this way. Take what you need from the closet and meet me outside in a dobosh."

 

ﻬﻬﻬ

 

In the wake of the storm, the empty moor outside the manor was tranquil with the families of fireflies buzzing their trail toward the rest of Altea. The quiet between Lance and Keith on their walk to town was peaceful. The clouds had shifted; the moon showed her face, and in this light, it was hard not to admire the one walking beside him.

Before they'd left, Lance had guided him to take clothes of Lotor's he knew wouldn't be missed. Keith had suited himself into a white shirt with lace insets along the collar and puffed sleeves that tapered into fitted cuffs. He even had proper boots now, with hooks and laces, and that same hooded cape as before for the matter of his ears. Just by some materials draped on his body, he looked the part of a regular citizen. He looked good.

"What's the matter, is there something on my face?" Keith asked.

Lance felt heat spread up from his neck to his cheeks. He reined his gaze back up the road. "No," he blurted and stole another shy, quick glance. "It's just...you look good."

"Oh," Keith said. His half-smile poked a cute dimple on his cheek, but his eyes remained earnest on the night's horizon. "Thank you."

By the time they reached town, Altea was alive in the streets, people and partygoers bumping shoulder-to-shoulder, spilling in and out of taverns and inns. Lance kept close to Keith amongst the wave of people passing by, cinching tight to his cape until they, too, were ambling into Smythe's Tavern with a few others.

Thanks to his friends, Lance of this place. He used to come here often for the dancing, joined by his goofier duo, Hunk and Pidge, or even his dear sisters, Rachel and Veronica. They'd have the best time relaying their days at one of the roundtables in the front, laughing and dancing around until their feet ached for rest. Those days weren't long ago. Lance supposed he'd soon miss the freedom of being able to go out and party—without the eyes of some obnoxious gossip or disdainful townspeople glaring as if he should know better.

Lance grimaced to himself and shook the thought away. "I'm going to check with the bartender and see if he knows where Coran is," he pointed to where a few danced-out patrons stood against the wall, wilted like like parched flowers and fanning themselves. "You wait there."

For the first time of the night, Keith parted ways with him and carved a path through a few dancers, waiting by where he was told like a good guardian. Lance lingered before going ahead to press through the crowd himself. As he met the bar, he began waving over one of the men behind the counter.

One bartender tipped his head Lance's way curiously while cleaning a pint and arched a thick brow. "How can I help you?"

"Is Coran here?" Lance asked. "It's kind of urgent that I speak to him."

"He's out right now."

_Great_. Lance blew out a breath. Could they run into any more obstacles?

"He should be back any dobosh now, though," the bartender said, almost as if catching his frustration. "You stick around, you'll have a better chance a' catching him."

Tonight was likely better than later. If they had to wait all night, he'd do it. This was the adventure, after all. He didn't come this far to disappoint Keith all over again.

"Thank you," Lance flashed a gracious little smile and promptly turned back to where he had come from. Weaving through the crowd, he walked along his tip-toes to catch where Keith was now, scouring for the charcoal material of his hood. What he saw instead were two shocks of fuzzy Galran ears, wiggling free amongst a sea of heads.

Heaven, it was pretty adorable.

"You're not wearing your hood," Lance said as he returned to him.

"I wanted to hear the music better," Keith's face looked wide and innocent. "It has a nice melody."

Quelling a laugh, Lance tilted his head. "It sure does."

There was a lingering wonder he had about the way Keith was behaving. Something about the way he experienced things, _how_ he experienced them, felt like that of someone who was knew to the world. After being torn away from humanity for so long, Lance could imagine it'd make anyone appreciative of something as simple as music. That was what he'd been talking about in the library, right?

"Coran's meant to be back any dobosh now," Lance said and overlooked the crowd again.

In the middle of the tavern, many had moved the tables for the room of the dance floor. Couples and friends alike carried each other in tune to the fast-paced music flooding the bar. They were all flushed in the faces and smiling, enjoying themselves and each other. There was no sign of Coran amongst them.

"Do you dance?" Keith asked amongst the cheery tune of the music.

"Sometimes," Lance said absently, eyes still searching.

"Do you want to?"

Lance did a rapid blink before turning his attention back on Keith. He lifted his brows in disbelief, almost taken aback by the pure, unspoiled hopefulness that welled up from Keith's gaze. He had the nerve to look so embarrassed for asking.

_One last dance would be nice_ , Lance's intrusive mind said. He looked back at the dancing crowd of bodies, lost to the booze and the beat. He wanted to be in the thick of it. "I do," he whispered. Keith's fingers sought his own quickly before he could react, lacing through them. His hand ran warm in Lance's, calloused and firm.

Just as the pitter-patter of his heart picked up, Lance was dragged into the gyrating bodies of the crowd, following in Keith's lead as they sought their place on the floor. They twirled through some couples as they found their footing amongst the fast-paced rhythm of violins and wooden cellos.

Keith's gaze was flickering over the dancers around them, running down their movements as if to vault it to memory.

"A little out of your element?" Lance asked close to his ear. It was hard to hear over the band and dancers. He squeezed both of Keith's hands in a gentle reassurance.

"It's not bad to try new things," Keith shouted, nodding gently. His focus was ill on the dancers, the panic reflecting in his eyes comical.

Lance poked his tongue into his cheek so he wouldn't smile. It was nice seeing Keith like this. So genuine, so human. For a tick, he almost forgot there was a curse that laid dormant somewhere inside him. All Keith wanted was a dance.

So Lance was going to give him one.

"Don't look so nervous," Lance said and lifted their interlocked hands. He twirled under the bridge of their arms and came back to Keith, taking up his hands again. "Make sure to move your feet, too."

"And gallop?" Keith asked, watching the footwork of others with dubious eyes.

"Yes," Lance laughed. "Gallop. Like this."

Quick-footed, he taught Keith to spin with the crowd and follow the wave of the violin's beat. Each movement was like the pull of a quick little tide, and with every turn, he could sense Keith coming into a little more confidence again. They were a perfect pair together. At one point, he felt the crowd could sense it, too.

They were on their third song when on one turn, Lance found himself dancing very close to Keith, close enough that their noses nearly brushed with every spin. At this proximity, he found Keith was but an inch or few taller. He was so dizzy, he could barely tell. Lance licked his lips and tried not to stare at Keith's mouth.

"Thank you," Keith's whispered exhale felt nearly like a kiss by his ear. Lance's stomach twisted, his entire being unsure on whether to lean into it or away.

"What are you thanking me for?" Lance asked, his footing growing clumsier with each twirl. Keith, by comparison, was still razor sharp, as if they'd just begun.

"For helping me," Keith said. "It's very...unselfish of you to do this, especially for someone in my position. And I know it's not all just for the sake of adventure."

"Then it's nothing to thank me for," Lance insisted shortly. He could feel his cheeks growing unmistakably warm. "It's just—I can't bear the idea of seeing someone else trapped from living their life." _Besides myself_ , he withheld. Their rotations began to slow as he continued. "If I can at least make one thing right for someone before—you know—then maybe that'd be one adventure enough for me. Plus, I... Well, I quite like you."

Without the sense of it, Keith had stopped their little dance. Every couple around them continued making passes around the floor, oblivious to their end.

"I mean, you remind me of myself," Lance babbled out shortly, uncertain now where his runaway thoughts were taking them. "In a weird, broody, sulky kind of way."

There was a barely there, tight-lipped smile tilting Keith's mouth. Lance was beginning to hate how it often appeared whenever he'd say the dumbest things. "I like you, too, Lance," he said, all nonchalance. It was that simple for him.

Lance flared his nostrils and turned his lips up in a pinched, fake little pout. This guy. As they stood only facing each other now, the brief quiet that had fallen upon the room was interrupted as the tavern's band struck up a new tune. It was a slow one now, a lovely ballad on the cellos, with notes that bled old countryside drama. On the verge of a wisecrack, Lance let out an embarrassing noise at the first touch of a hand on the small of his back.

"Sorry," Keith said. His other hand was barely hovering toward Lance's. "Should we..?"

"No! I mean..." Lance's cheeks were bright red as he wracked his brain for words. He felt seized in the moment. In all his nerves, his gaze began drifting over Keith's shoulder and fell upon an older man walking down the length of the bar instead. He recognized him immediately. "Coran!"

Hastily, he grabbed hold of Keith by the sleeve and towed him off the dance floor, decisively leaving his muddled feelings behind as well. He could dwell on whatever that was later.

As they met Coran at the corner counter, the older Altean's face broke out in a beaming, wrinkled smile. "Lance! So good to see you! Here with Hunk and Pidge again?"

"Not today, no," Lance said and pulled Keith close. "I—"

"It's the nunvill keeping them away, isn't it," Coran clicked his tongue. "I keep meaning to perfect that beverage. Good going down, utter disaster on its way out."

"Coran!" Lance pleaded. "I'm here because I have questions about the book of Altean grimoire. Your great grandfather's, specifically?"

A surprised sort of chuckle left Coran. "Why, it's been a dobosh since I've looked into one of his own books," he exchanged a look between Lance and Keith. "What is the question, exactly?"

From his breast pocket, Keith drew the folded, dog-eared paper they'd ripped from the spell book and passed it to Coran. "It's a transformation spell. Does it look any familiar to you?"

"Spirit thing of the night," Coran read and looked at them suspiciously. "Where did you get this?"

"Honerva's old library. My library now, technically," Lance said. He gestured to Keith, who stood next to him with an anticipated sort of look on his face. "This is my—This is Keith, he's...well, a victim of Honerva's magic. I know it sounds insane, but he's been stuck a gargoyle since the war with Zarkon ended. And we believe that that's the spell she used to cast it."

Coran shifted his attention on Keith without a bit of hesitance. "You're cursed, are you?"

"This is only temporary," Keith spread his arms under his cape. "By morning, I'll have returned to stone."

"You can feel when the transformation takes place?" Coran asked.

"I feel it now," Keith said and looked pointedly to Lance. "Something he did awakened me."

"But he's still stuck to repeat this process," Lance chirped, suddenly modest. "I'm not responsible for anything. It's him who's been babbling about looking after me all night, which I don't need, by the way, _thank you_ ," he cut his eyes at Keith briefly. "We just want to understand what it is Honerva's scratched out."

"It's a recipe," Coran said casually. He passed the folded piece of paper back as Lance's mouth fell, shrugging. "Every reversal spell requires a recipe."

"Do you remember? The recipe?"

"Most of them are similar," Coran nodded. "I should have my own version of this book upstairs. For this spell in particular, they should be attainable ingredients: pink juniberries, moonflower, zest of a star citrus, the like... Though, there is one ingredient in particular that's not easy to attain, and I know for a fact that it was scratched out of this section for being crucial to the spell."

"What is it?" Lance asked.

"Blessed water," Coran said and looked up. "From the fountain of the Lion Goddess."

 

ﻬﻬﻬ

 

Lance and Keith stood over the wreckage of the Lion Godess' fountain in a palpable silence. The garden was church quiet save for the occasional insect chirping, the sky a softer shade of night since they'd left the tavern. Dawn was mere hours away.

"Maybe there's runoff we can salvage from the soil," Keith said at last. He sounded as unsure as Lance felt on the inside.

"I'm not going to make you eat dirt, Keith," Lance said flatly. On the chance that he did anyway, it wouldn't matter regardless. The water had been tampered by rain and weather. Everything inside the holy fountain had gone and fed itself to the Altean ground, and the stone goddess herself was just a fragmented corpse standing among the ruins of it all, looking down on them like a severe and plain-faced omen.

"We can't be certain this is the only fountain of the Lion Goddess," Keith said, gesturing. "Across the village, the castle—"

"The castle is closed this time of year," Lance said hotly, glowering. "Princess Allura is on journey to the Balmerans. There's no way we'll be allowed inside to gather water from their fountain. Everywhere else this water could be is on private property, probably several towns away from here. Of course, the manor was built here for the sake of the fountain. You were right. Honerva had been steps ahead of us before we could even begin."

Even saying it aloud now made their situation feel all too real. There was hurt and panic welling up like a balloon in Lance's throat, growing so tight he had to choke it down. The wetness of foliage carrying in the breeze was just as stifling. From the rumble of the sky, he could tell the storm was getting ready to pick up again and drown the garden for a second time tonight.

Keith was quiet as ever next to him. On the walk back, he'd freed his wings from within himself, no longer able to keep them restrained anymore. The backing of his shirt was shredded for that, but he looked more comfortable than he had all evening.

How could he not be bothered? They'd hit yet another obstacle.

How could he not look so upset that they were running low on time? That he'd be stone by sunrise? Trapped again. There was no surety of a next week for Keith, a next month, a year. Lance's heart squeezed tight in his chest. The world began to tilt.

Keith didn't deserve this ending. He didn't deserve to be someone's object, or to be hidden forever. He deserved the life he was meant to lead, where he'd be free to travel and battle and go on all the adventures he dreamed of. He deserved the luxury of dancing in taverns and running around town. He deserved love.

Before he knew it, fresh tears went rolling down Lance's cheeks as it began to sprinkle quickly. And then he was running from the gardens, leaving the shattered fountain, Keith's shouts of his name chasing close behind. His voice was lost under the rain's spitting fury.

By the time Lance was bursting through the back doors and into the manor, he was panting, stumbling and finding purchase against a near sideboard. There wasn't a word in the world that could simmer his anger. He kicked the leg of the sideboard in a fit, swearing oaths until something heavy landed in the patio.

Keith stood there in the doorway, blinking like a dog without any sense to come in from the rain. His black cape fluttered behind him.

"How are you not mad?" Lance asked. His voice wobbled. "How are you okay with this? Everything we did tonight was for nothing."

Keith was silent still. There was nothing but the constancy of rain in answer. He stepped inside and shut the doors behind him, finally.

Blind rage rose up inside Lance. "You'll be stuck here again," he hiccup-cried as Keith came near. "You'll never leave this place. You'll never truly know the world outside this estate."

"I'll be fine."

"No, you won't, Keith! You'll be stone again—trapped! You won't have a life! He'll always get his way with you!"

There was another beat of quiet before Keith tipped his head curiously. "Is this still about me?"

Lance's throat tightened again as he realized his own words. He took stuttered breaths and wiped at his cheeks quickly with a humiliated little smile. "Goddess, I'm sorry," he sniffed. "This isn't about me. Or adventure. I can't live vicariously though the freedom I want to give you. I shouldn't have said anything." He could hardly stop his tears until warm fingers grazed the edge of his jaw, placating him.

Keith's touch tingled with an unnatural energy, sizzling along his sharp claws like static. It grounded Lance slowly, kept him anchored there instead of spiraling off into his own head; worrying about the curse, about Keith, about his seemingly inevitable dark future. Lance closed his eyes and breathed in the nearness of him, of rain and pine. Keith had a scent that was familiar and comforting, like all things that could make one feel less alone.

"None of this is your fault," Keith said gently, carefully tucking damp hair behind Lance's ear. Up close, Lance could see raindrops still making their course down his face. "And we'll get nothing from you beating yourself up like this, anyway."

"I was supposed to help you," Lance whispered.

Keith's expression tightened. "No. I was."

There was barely any fight left in Lance to refute that statement. But he hadn't really thought about Keith's meaning here until now, as he recalled the strange visit he'd had in the garden today with that girl, Romelle. There was no doubt in his mind that she had involvement in Keith's awakening, but there was only so much to focus on in their feeble time. He wouldn't even know where to look for her if he wanted to.

Romelle's words swam back to him: _He's here to protect you_. A clammy chill ran up Lance's arms, made his chest go tight.

"Am I in danger?" he asked.

Keith lowered his hand slowly.

"Am I?" Lance asked again, louder. "All this time, you've talked about being my guardian. Even that girl today, Romelle—she told me you were coming. So? What is it? Is something going to happen to me?"

"I don't know," Keith said. He looked contemplative, wary. "I didn't know who you were, I just woke up knowing it was my job. Spells don't break for nothing. That's why I'm not concerned about tomorrow. Should anything happen, I should be here to serve my purpose."

"And should you serve your purpose?"

"I... The curse should break."

Lance let out a short, bitter laugh and paced. All night they'd been running like chickens without heads. He rounded on Keith again. "You didn't think to tell me this before we went on a wild goose chase?"

"You've been denying my help all evening!" Keith exclaimed. "Besides, you seemed to be enjoying yourself. Up until this moment, at least. I thought if I could keep you distracted long enough, you'd let me follow you, and I'd be ready at your side if anything did happen."

Lance felt himself pale very quickly. He hadn't thought about that, either. "What if it happens in the day?" Could Romelle have prophesied  that, too? She knew something posed a threat to him.

"It shouldn't," Keith said and shrugged. "There are rules. As long as I'm on the property...you should be alright."

"You don't know that," Lance fretted. Once again, his mind was pistoling from one fear to he next. It was almost dizzying.

Keith could see it in his face so much that he went and touched his head again. And just like the first time, it worked. His petting hand was a balm—soothing Lance's fears, cooling his anger and keeping it from boiling over.

Lance figured it was the cruel irony to being a gargoyle. Always looking after everything, always warding away any threat of his person by simply being present. He closed his eyes. It almost felt ridiculous, how calm it made him.

Lance caught Keith's wrist. "Thank you," he mumbled. There was an unnatural warmth to his grip. It was like a hum against his skin, a glow unseen between them. If he weren't so tired now, he might be frightened by it. At this point, there were several things that should frighten him. "You'll come back tomorrow, right?"

"Yes."

"You promise?"

"I do," Keith said.

Lance raised a quizzical brow. "What if you're not here?"

"Where else am I going?" Keith asked incredulously. There was a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of what Lance had come to realize was a lovely mouth. "I promise, Lance. I had fun today, anyway... I lived."

Lance found his own laugh in this. "Oh, a night at the tavern is hardly living," he crossed his arms. "You come back tomorrow, I'll show you living."

"Well, I'm glad you'll have me," Keith said, low and warm. "I'd like to show you something, too."

Lance couldn't name the expression Keith wore then, but it made his entire stomach turn flips. Hot all the way to the tips of his ears, he cleared his throat with a fake, gruff little cough. "I should..." He gestured up.

"Right," Keith said and maintained his smile, albeit wane. "It'll be morning soon."

And they both knew what happened then.

As they turned to go up the stairs, they walked together, side by side, in a companionable, wistful silence. They didn't speak until Keith had walked Lance all the way to his bedroom door.

Lance started to open the door, and then stopped. He trained his eyes back on Keith, who watched him with that same gentle look as before. "I'm really glad you're here," he said quietly. "Honest. Guardian or not. It's nice to have a friend that isn't on pages."

"Likewise," Keith said. "There's a lot I've missed in my time away," and then. "You're definitely not what I was expecting."

Lance felt his face go warm. After a moment of breathless uncertainty, he nudged his back against the door. "Goodnight, Keith." And slipped inside.

 

ﻬﻬﻬ

 

In his dream, thunder rumbled closer and closer, competing with the steady drumming of rain outside. Lance's blankets were thrown back as Keith crawled up the duvet and nudged his knees apart. Lightning shot across the walls of the bedroom and bathed half his face in light. There was something primal and hungry in his eyes. It made Lance want to run. It made him want to stay. It made him want both things at once.

Above all, he welcomed Keith as he was pulled under, the weight of him settling on top forcing the air from Lance's lungs in small, shallow breaths. Keith's lips had found the curve of his neck, laying a slow trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses there that made Lance feel as though he would melt into the mattress.

There was a fine glisten of sweat in Keith's brow as he made his choice and pressed forward in gentle rocks. It built a heat in Lance's belly, one that made him squirm and hiccup as his whole body strained to meet the insistent pressure rubbing into him. He felt close to popping as Keith cupped his cheek, just as he had that evening. He smiled as if he was only just discovering the world and leaned in, nice and sweet. Lance was gasping for his mouth, desperate for his kiss. He felt close to popping as their lips made the slightest brush.

But then he woke with a start, breathing in quick gulps. He laid a hand over his heart. His nightclothes bad become sweat-drenched and made sticky elsewhere. His eyelids fluttered as he adjusted to the bedroom, still dark from the otherwise orange bubble of light from the rising sun.

Slowly, he sat up in bed, embarrassed for his runaway subconscious. It'd all felt so real.

He watched the hazy moor clear beyond his windows. The trees dripping leaves of green-gold and red-orange, soaking the meadow in vivid colors. It filled him with a strange kind of sadness.

Mind the provocative dream, Lance thought it a pity for his new friend not to be here with him in this moment. He thought about how he would love to show Keith how beautiful the world had become, and how it's changed since he'd been gone.

**Author's Note:**

> so this took an unnecessarily long time to get out! those who saw the preview for this months ago, GOSH, thank you for your patience. seriously, you're the best. and thank you especially to lin, who came up with this beautiful concept to begin with!
> 
> that said, things are gonna get hot fast in the next part, and i hope you'll stay tuned to see what happens. thank you so much for reading, and PLEASE do drop a comment! let me know what you think! ♥️
> 
> [@peachgrdn](https://mobile.twitter.com/peachgrdn) / tumblr : [peachgrdn](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/peachgrdn)


End file.
